The daily battles

May 11th, 2009

The problems on the road aren’t over yet. Every day people and aid organisations are stopped under threat and robbed. Due to the fact that this also happened to a Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) vehicle in the beginning of March, we have halted all of our activities outside the villages of Mweso and Kitchanga. For weeks now, we have not been able to reach our health posts. This means that thousands of people have no access to health care.

The results can be seen and felt. It’s most obvious among the most vulnerable. Mothers arrive at the hospital, after hours of walking, with a child in their arms. The children are severely malnourished, others have trouble breathing.

For days and nights, Haishakuya’s father sits in our intensive care room with his son, holding him in his arms. Haishakuya is extremely sick. I am afraid of losing him. We think that he has tuberculosis. The antibiotics are not working and despite the therapeutic food, he is not gaining weight.

The Ministry of Health operates a tuberculosis programme in Mweso, but it has a lot of problems getting the medicines it needs. At the moment, there are no medicines available for the children in the hospital. Every day, Haishakuya’s condition worsens.

His father holds him firmly while Haishakuya uses the oxygen machine, as he is having more and more trouble breathing. The Congolese doctor decides to give Haishakuya half of an adult medication pill. I am concerned that Haishakuya will suffer from some dangerous side effects related to this medicine, but we have no choice. No medication definitely means the end.

Love as medicine

I run my hand once again over Haishakuya’s tiny head and ask the nurse to tell his father what I am saying. I explain that I am very happy that he holds Haishakuya so tightly. I say that this is extremely important. Love is the best medicine that his father can give him. The father swallows hard and tells me that Haishakuya’s mother has already died and that he doesn’t want to lose his son as well. I swallow hard too and wish I had more power to do something…

In the meantime, Haishakuya has gotten a neighbour. Rebecca, six years old, eleven kilos. Her mother carried her for 60 kilometers. Rebecca has been admitted to our intensive therapeutic feeding programme. However, she keeps spitting up all the milk and rehydration mix we give her. We have to start an IV, but it takes hours before we locate a good vein. Rebecca is in such a bad state that all of her blood vessels have collapsed.

That evening, before I return to the base where we live, I stop by Haishakuya and Rebecca. Haishakuya is lying in his father’s arms. His breathing is slightly calmer now. Rebecca is on the oxygen machine and doesn’t noticeably react to my touch.

The next morning I wonder, as I do on many mornings, what the night has brought. The nurse informs me that Rebecca died during the night. Haishakuya is doing better. His fever is down and he is breathing easier. In his father’s arms, he is moved from the intensive care room to the therapeutic feeding unit.

His place is taken over by a set of twins. Eight months old, 2.7 kilos. Both have severe pneumonia and are dehydrated. The mother just arrived after two days of walking.

Another battle to fight….

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